Waste Not
by Blue Tears
Summary: “You’re kidding me, Mark. We are talking about the same Roger Davis, right?” MR.


**Title: Waste Not****  
****Pairing: Mark/Roger****  
****Rating: T****  
****Summary:_"You're kidding me, Mark. We are talking about the same Roger Davis, right?_****_"_****  
****Disclaimer: Don't own, not my characters.**

* * *

**Waste Not**

"Let me just finish this one thing, okay Mark?" Roger asked, unable to tear his eyes away from the crumpled piece of scratch paper that he had globbed onto. Pressed tight against Roger's side, Mark could see a thousand little scribbles, lyrics and rifts alike, all smeared across the page in runny black ink. Mark was pretty sure that the musician had been writing on that single piece of paper for the past week.

"Roger," Mark's voice was an octave lower that natural, a clear warning sign to his roommate that he would not tolerate being late to the Life Café. It would be the third time in the past four days, all because of Roger's latest obsession with actually starting and finishing all of his songs. While it was a welcomed surprise, Roger had seemed to go a little overboard. When he was not working on his music he was taking double shifts at the bar and it just was not natural for a man to go to bed at four in the morning and wake up three hours later at seven.

"Come on, man," Roger pleaded; finally glancing up from the lyrics he was writing to flash Mark a sincere pout. For an instant Mark would have given Roger anything he asked for. "One stanza, that's all," he said trying to compromise before he turned back to the task at hand. Impatient and gravely irritated by Roger's recent habit of getting caught up in his work, Mark decided to act.

"Lets go," he whispered against Roger's skin as he leaned in closer to his roommate, trailing a few playful nips and butterfly kisses along the tense neck muscles. The only response he got as a mumbled "Mark, stop it, I can't concentrate." Roger gently nudged Mark's body away with his shoulder, still scribbling down his all-important lyrics. Mark bit back the obvious statement that that was kind of the point of kissing him. Thus leading him to make a grab for the piece of paper.

He missed, well not entirely. His dull fingernail caught the edge of a three-hole punch, tearing off a sizable chuck of the paper. There was a moment of eerie silence as Roger sat stunned, staring with his mouth agape before he could even manage link to words together.

"Fuck, Mark!" He gasped, snatching away the torn piece of paper. Mark stumbled over a quick apology before being cut off by a glare from Roger. There was a long pause, uncomfortable silence clinging to tense air before being defused with a quiet, "just go without me," from Roger. Unsure what to do, Mark leaned down to press a quick kiss against Roger's stubble covered cheek.

"Okay," Mark mumbled against his skin before slipping out of the loft, sans his camera, as Roger frantically began searching for a roll of tape to piece back together his paper.

"Hey, Mark," Joanne called from the single table she, Maureen and Collins had procured in the crowded café. He wandered over to the table, managing not to bump into a waitress, noting the expectant look on each of their faces. He quietly apologized for his tardiness and was relieved when Joanne smiled and said they had only just got their a few minutes before.

"Where's Roger?" Collins finally asked, looking around Mark expecting to see the musician trailing behind him. "You guys are usually attached at the hip." The bile immediately began to rise, burning its way up his throat.

"Working," Mark muttered as he collapsed onto a chair next to Maureen, who immediately began fawning over him. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and gave him a short squeeze of a hug.

"What?" Collins replied in a disbelieving voice. Sure, Roger went on his little antisocial kicks from time to time but he would always use that time to go introspective and never, ever actually productive. He would brood; in fact Roger had the art of brooding down to an exact science.

"He's finishing up a song, or something," Mark said dissmissivly, waving his hand to brush off the sting but his mouth quickly betrayed him. "He couldn't possibly be bothered to have dinner with us, far too busy."

Bitter, and no doubt about that.

"You're kidding me, Mark. We are talking about the same Roger Davis, right?" Collins chuckled incredulously, looking closly at the deflated expression twisting Mark's meloncholy smile. "You know, the one who spent a whole year writing one song." A flicker of pain glinted in Mark's eyes, Collins had hit a raw nerve.

"One in the same. He's become obsessed," he began to fidget angrly with the paper napkin, tearing it into tiny squares that soon littered the table in a neat little pile in front of Mark. "I mean, he is getting stuff done, and it's really good stuff, he won't let something go until its absolutley _perfect_…"

"A regular old workaholic and perfectionist?" Joanne asked with a small, selfdepricating grin that earned her a consoling kiss from Maureen.

"You sure a few wires in your brain aren't crisscrossed and you're thinking about Joanne?" Collins asked.

"He's always either writing or bartending, I think that the last time we…" Mark trailed off bitting his lips as a deep flush ran up the back of his neck and stained his cheeks a light pink color. "Was almost month ago, and ever since then he's been just working nonstop."

"You need to talk to that boy."

"Roger," Mark called out as his bare feet padded down the short hall to their bedroom. Glancing inside his old room, now dubbed their room, he saw his roommate sprawled on the mattress with the same piece of paper from early that evening. Of course the offending object was now taped back together but it was still wrinkled as ever. "Roger?" Mark said again, this time hoping to gain the other man's attention, maybe even get him to look at something other than those lyrics.

"Hmm?" Roger hummed, eyes focused on sheet of paper.

"Have you been working this whole time?" Mark asked as he took a tentative step inside their bedroom.

"Mm-hmm," he replied, shifting his weight to prop himself up on the other elbow so his body was angled towards Mark. Even halfway across the dimly lit room Mark could see the fatigue written deeply in the small lines around Roger's mouth from where he was scowling. There were deep circles, a faint reddish tint to the skin as well, just below the musician's eyes.

"Roger, what's going on?"

"What do you mean?"

"Look at me." Mark crossed the room until he stood at the foot of the bed. "Roger," his voice left no room for flippant disregard.

"What?" Roger asked finally looking up from the paper, folding it in half and slipping it into his front pants pocket.

"Why are you doing this? You've been working on these new songs for a week straight, maybe even longer."

"When inspiration h-" Roger began to explain with a flimsy excuse, fiddling idly with the uncapped pen, scribbling something on the back of his hand that resembled a music staff. Before he could complete a thought he was cut off by Mark's voice, sounding louder that Roger ever remembered it being.

"And you've been working all hours bartending," Mark pulled the pen out of Roger hand and tossed it into a corner of the room.

"The band needs money for a recordi-" Roger began, looking in the direction of where the pen had been thrown. Following the other man's gaze to the pen, Mark felt something inside crack.

"Roger," Mark sighed dejectedly as he collapsed onto the mattress, rolling over to lie on his back, staring blankly up at the ceiling. Several cracks and oddly shaped designs were bleeding through the cheap plaster. He felt the other man move beside him and closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable.

"Mark," Roger mocked him in a cutting tone. The old springs creaked in protest as Roger sat up, shifting so that he could swing a long leg over Mark's thin hips. Now straddling the other man, he started down at the flushed cheeks and waited for Mark to speak.

"You're obsessed," Mark whispered, "addicted even." Saying it out loud made it true, made it real, made Roger have to deal with it. Pale hands found their way into the belt loops of Roger's tight jeans, hooking themselves about the faded material. It was something solid to hold onto, something warm and living. "Everything doesn't need to happen all at once," he was pleading now. "If you stop working for an hour or two to have a quick dinner with your friends everything won't fall apart." He was frantically searching Roger's clouded eyes for any response to what he had said.

"I've wasted too much time already feeling sorry for myself," Roger began, pressing his hands into the yielding mattress just above Mark's shoulders, framing his face. Those scared blue eyes, knowing what was coming next. Mark tried to brace himself for his friend's blunt words. "I'm dying, Mark," he said, his voice steady as he pressed his head against Mark's chest. If he concentrated he could hear the slow, constant heart beating just a second off from the rhythm of his own. "I don't _have_ time."


End file.
